He Doesn't Hate
by WinchesterPhantom
Summary: Scabior doesn't hate mudbloods. He hunts them, but he has his reasons. Good reasons - he believes.


**Disclaimer:** I don't own Harry Potter - I know, really random but hey - such is life.

**Author's Note:** Well ... I mean ... who wasn't just a tiny bit curious about Scabior when they saw _Deathly Hallows Part One_? So here are some musings on him.

**He Doesn't Hate**

He doesn't hate mudbloods.

Shocking, he knows, especially when he considers his line of work – if he could even call what he does work. He knows he's no better than the common thieves, crooks and pirates. He's just one of those – a soldier of fortune or whatever the hell it is – he does his job, takes the gold and returns to the hunt.

He doesn't hate mudbloods but he hunts them.

The hunt, he wonders if that is what draws him to it. He's always liked the chase – preferably when he's the one doing the chasing. There is something so satisfying about closing in on your prey, watching them scramble and scream, chests heaving and then the moment when they realise it's over. The smell of sweat, dirt, mud, blood, tears that mingle with the prey's own scent: honeysuckle, smoke, or roses. The look of utter defeat and fear that builds in their eyes as he catches them and he stalks towards them, eyes gleaming.

There is something beautiful about that moment. Something so perfect. It sends a shiver up his spine as he breathes it in, sees what he's caught and evaluates its weight in galleons. Then the way they lie, how they spew crap out their mouths, sweat like pigs. This is the best part because you see how far people will go to get out of their situation before realising no matter they say, whatever lies they tell it will not change the fact they are screwed.

And then they start to beg, start to plead. The girls especially – that is something fun to watch. Maybe that's why he does it – for the girls. They cry, bat their eyelids. Sometimes they think if they play along he'll let them go – sometimes he does for a few seconds: he lets them think they are free and then binds them back to him, kisses them roughly, hands exploring and taking every part of them, smelling the disappointment that taints their skin. Skin flushed red from running barefoot in the cold night air.

It's that final look that really makes him smile, when they submit to his soft words with dagger meaning and slow kisses. Then he turns them aside. Because there is no fun in complete and utter defeat. He likes some fight. He's had to fight his whole life – and he can't imagine anything else. He wants to have some fight with them, some push and pull, tit for tat.

Hit for slap.

Moan for scream.

He's a bit unhinged – he's not sure how much of a soul he has left after spending five years in that fucking prison, the warmth never reaching him until the Dark Lord smashed the bars to break his followers out, and in the chaos he slipped out to repair his soul, regain his spirit.

Which came back meaner, crueller but oh so wiser than before.

He reflects that if only he had been smarter, if only he hadn't called her a 'mudblood' during the trial, if only he hadn't let her pull him too hard – she might still be alive, he might not have gone to Azkaban. He wouldn't have been called a 'Death Eater' – which he wasn't because he doesn't hate mudbloods and would never submit to someone else completely.

He doesn't hate mudbloods. He even loved one once – at least he thinks it was love. It was something though, something that sparked inside him when he saw her. Something that made his heart race as she moaned into his ear, him leading her through the motions.

He loved her dearly, she was his lovely – and then she ran, crying wolf. That had hurt. That had really hurt. He could have never hurt her permanently afterall. So he had went after her, tracked her down, tied her up, screamed at her to stop lying.

He had gone too far – maybe. A part of him said she deserved every mark she got.

Another part of him said he should've stopped before the death rattle.

It's too easy to reach that point, to sickening and horrifying easy. It shouldn't be that easy. When he was young he had thought he had control – it wasn't until he felt the warmth from her skin as he cradled her against his chest he realised he had no idea what control was.

Until now. He has control and exercises it on the girls that plead, to prove a point.

He doesn't hate mudbloods. He hunts them because if he doesn't someone much worse will hunt them.

It's really all about the control.

And he has the control to keep them safe –or at least safer.

_**Fin**_

**Author's Notes: **Thoughts are appreciated :)


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